The rambling goes for quiet some time, and Serena manage sneak in all her struggle during her academy days, and also… there other supposed to be supervisor that had given up on her. “—and that is exactly why Mr. Barrentworth is my last hope!” Serena all but wailed, throwing her arms into the air in a dramatic display of frustration. Her voice echoed faintly off the infirmary’s stone walls. “If I fail this assignment, Professor Willthrop said she won’t write me another recommendation. And if that happens, I’m done for. Doomed. Utterly ruined.”

  Elliot cast a sidelong glance at her, one brow raised in mild alarm. “Um… couldn’t you just find another professional adventurine? I mean, they can’t all be like him.”

  Serena halted mid-step, spinning on her heel to face him, scandalized. “No, no, no! You’re completely missing the point, Elliot! Ugh, okay—fine. Let me break it down for you. Again.”

  Elliot blinked, vaguely regretting the question. But she was already off.

  “I want to be an adventurine, yes? So first, I had to graduate from Orias Academy under my designated class. sorceress, so—check. Done. Next step: register with the Adventurine Court as a trainee. Also done. But before I can officially be recognized, I have to complete ten public quests under the supervision of a licensed professional.” She paused, giving him a look. “Still following?”

  Elliot, who had lost the thread somewhere between ‘designated class’ and ‘ten quests,’ nodded weakly. “Yes.”

  “Great!” she went on, breathless with momentum. “Now—my academy mentor, Professor Willthrop, gets to choose who supervises me. And guess who she picked as my last possible supervisor? The absolute worst possible candidate in the entire kingdom. Roderick Barrentworth! The most stubborn, miserable, fire-scorched man I’ve ever met in my life!”

  She stomped a few steps ahead before turning back again, clearly just warming up. “He hates students. He hates people. He probably even hates the sun. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to work under him?”

  Elliot scratched the back of his head, casting her a wary glance. “So… what are you going to do?”

  Serena’s shoulders sagged, her energy draining as quickly as it had sparked. “I don’t know,” she admitted, softer this time. “I guess… I’ll go back to the inn, cry into my pillow, and try again tomorrow. Because, like I said… this is my last chance. I have to convince him. I have to.”

  She came to a slow stop, her eyes drifting to the polished tiles beneath their boots. The usual fire behind her eyes dimmed to quiet embers, and in that silence, Elliot noticed something different. The slight tremble in her fingers. The way she twisted the edge of her sleeve. The brittle edge hiding behind her cheer.

  Without thinking, Elliot stepped closer. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder—awkward, perhaps, but earnest. “Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “Don’t let it get to you too much. I believe in you.”

  Serena’s head jerked up. Her gaze met his—and for the first time, she really looked at him. Not the worn cloak or the guarded demeanor, but his eyes: a piercing, unnatural blue, like frost under moonlight. The kind of blue that didn’t belong to any ordinary man.

  “Your eyes…” she whispered, caught off guard.

  Elliot blinked. “Um… yes?”

  “They’re… really blue,” she said, blinking rapidly as her cheeks began to flush. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—uh, it’s just… I’ve never seen eyes like that before. They’re… kind of mesmerizing.”

  There was a long pause.

  “…Thanks?” Elliot replied, clearly unsure what to do with the compliment.

  Serena laughed—nervous and breathless, but real. “Sorry. That sounded way less weird in my head.”

  Elliot let out a faint, amused exhale. “Well… glad I could mesmerize you.”

  Her laughter bubbled over, chasing away the earlier gloom. And for the first time since entering the high halls of the infirmary, Elliot found himself smiling—not out of politeness, but something far quieter, far warmer.

  The weight of Serena’s last comment still lingered awkwardly in the air, thick and unspoken. She shifted uncomfortably, clearly regretting her own words, while Elliot stood motionless, unsure if looking away or straight at her would make it worse.

  Fortunately—divine intervention, perhaps—the soft shuffle of robes and sandaled feet signaled the return of the priestess from before. Her serene presence seemed to sweep through the tension like a breeze through heavy mist.

  “My sincerest apologies for the delay,” she said with a gentle bow, her voice a calm murmur of bells. “Our healers have finally opened a room. It has been… a rather overwhelming day.”

  “O-oh?” Serena replied, immediately seizing the opportunity to shift the conversation, her signature charm switching on like clockwork. “I wonder what could possibly fill up a hall this large. I mean, unless the Celestials themselves came down with a cough, I can’t imagine.”

  The priestess offered a knowing smile, folding her hands gracefully in front of her. “Well, if you truly must know… it’s quite the peculiar incident, actually. There was a brawl in the lower quarter earlier today. A tavern dispute, or so the guard reports. Nine half-orc warriors were brought in—every one of them beaten to a pulp. Bones broken, noses shattered, pride thoroughly bruised. A dreadful mess.”

  There was a pause.

  Serena went pale. Elliot stiffened.

  In perfect, synchronized horror, both of them slowly turned their heads toward each other, faces frozen as if struck by petrification magic. Neither spoke a word—but their eyes said it all.

  Oh no.

  The priestess continued, oblivious. “Some say the fight was one-sided. Quite rare when half-orcs are involved, wouldn’t you say? Whoever did it must have had... formidable skill.”

  Elliot suddenly found the tiled floor intensely fascinating. Serena gave a weak, strangled laugh, her earlier wit completely gone to smoke.

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  “Well,” she managed, her voice several pitches higher than usual, “I suppose… we’ll just… head on in, then?”

  The priestess gestured gracefully toward the arched hallway. “Right this way.”

  As they followed the priestess down a quiet corridor, Serena suddenly leaned toward Elliot, her voice a sharp whisper.

  “You filled up the entire infirmary?!”

  Elliot shot her a sideways look. “We filled it up. I was the one who fought them off to protect you, remember?”

  Serena opened her mouth to launch a rebuttal—but stopped mid-breath. Her gaze snapped ahead, her body went rigid, and without warning, she seized Elliot by the arm.

  “Hey—what are you—?”

  Before he could finish, Serena yanked him aside and shoved him behind one of the towering marble columns that lined the hallway. They pressed into the shadows, out of the priestess’s line of sight.

  “What in the—Serena, I’m supposed to get my hand healed or I’ll lose—”

  “Shh!” she hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Just look!”

  Elliot blinked, then slowly turned to follow her pointed finger.

  And there he was.

  A hulking half-orc stood near the open infirmary doors, barking complaints at a weary-looking priestess. He was thick-necked and broad-shouldered, wrapped in gauze and bandages that hinted at the scale of his injuries—injuries Elliot recognized all too well. His arm was bound tightly against his chest, and a patch of healing salve glistened across his temple. Even battered and limping, he exuded a brutish kind of arrogance.

  “That’s him,” Serena whispered through clenched teeth. “That’s the leader of the nine you put in here. The one who ran away while you were taking the others apart like firewood.”

  The half-orc gestured dramatically toward the infirmary, clearly recounting his version of events. Though the words were too far off to hear clearly, his tone made it easy to guess—loud, self-righteous, and entirely devoid of truth.

  “He’s probably telling them he got jumped by a gang of assassins,” Serena muttered. “Or maybe that a meteor fell on him while he was heroically defending orphans, as if the guards didn’t already told the priestess the actual story”

  Elliot deadpanned. “To be fair… I did throw a chair.”

  “Not the point!” she hissed.

  They ducked lower as a second priestess emerged from the infirmary, nodding sympathetically to the injured brute. The half-orc continued to rant, flailing his good arm with exaggerated suffering.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” Elliot said, his voice low but firm as he glanced once more toward the half-orc.

  “What?” Serena turned to him, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “We can slip out now. Avoid all the trouble. Just… leave.”

  “But your wrist—the burns—”

  “It’s going to be fine.”

  “No! No, it’s not,” she argued, her voice rising in panic.

  “Serena.” Elliot stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, gently but with conviction. The sudden closeness cut through her frantic words. His expression had hardened—not with stubbornness, but with quiet certainty. “Look at me.”

  She did.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said, the words calm, grounded—like he wasn’t just trying to reassure her, but telling her a truth he knew to his core. There was no fear in his tone, no hesitation. Only certainty.

  “But—” Her gaze fell to his bandaged hand, the fabric darkened slightly from the wound beneath. She winced.

  “Trust me,” he said softly, his eyes steady on hers. “Please.”

  Serena stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden stillness between them—the sincerity in his voice, the eerie calm that surrounded him like frost in a quiet wood. For a brief second, she wasn’t standing in a temple hallway hiding from an angry half-orc, or panicking over burnt skin and missed healing appointments.

  She was just… there, with him. And something in her, despite everything, believed him.

  She gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright,” she whispered.

  Elliot released her shoulders. “Okay,” he said calmly, voice low and steady. “This way.”

  Without another word, he turned, taking the lead as Serena followed closely behind, her eyes darting nervously around the corridor. They retraced their steps toward the main hall, weaving past pale-robed priestesses and hushed patients, hoping to slip out quietly through the towering front gates.

  But fate, as always, had other plans.

  Just as they neared the arched exit, movement stirred beyond the threshold—and emerging from the outside mist came a formation of figures. Half-orcs. A dozen strong, maybe more, stomping forward with grim determination carved into their faces. Each bore the look of someone recently wronged, and each wore a fury sharpened into a blade.

  At their forefront strode a figure who stood out immediately—not for size, but for presence. He was tall and wiry, his lean frame clad in fitted black leather stitched with iron studs, the shoulder pads crowned in cruel spikes. Strapped across his back were not one, but two greatswords, their hilts rising above his shoulders like wings of steel. His skin was a dusky green, his features severe and angular, but it was his mouth that drew the eye—lips smeared in thick, black ink, an unsettling contrast to his pallid fangs.

  There was no mistaking it. This one was no ordinary brawler. He didn’t need bulk to command fear—his aura did that on its own. Cold, focused, and brimming with intent.

  “That’s not good,” Serena muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. As soon as she saw the menacing figure of the half-orc, her grip on Elliot’s arm tightened, pulling him back instinctively.

  “That’s Darcus,” she added in a hushed tone, her voice laced with dread. “They called him The Butcher”

  Elliot glanced at her, his brow furrowing. Serena, still keeping low, dragged him back to a shadowed corner of the hall, trying to remain unseen.

  “He’s the third in command of the Horn Raiders’ guild,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “A savage who doesn’t hesitate to make an example of anyone who crosses him. Oh no this is bad, if he is here… that means the half-orcs you beat up are his fellow guild members”

  Elliot’s gaze turned back to the half-orcs, who were snarling and scanning the room, their fury unmistakable. It was clear now that leaving through the front gate was no longer an option.

  “There goes our plan to pass through that gate,” Elliot said grimly. His heart raced as he watched Darcuss’s cold eyes sweep the hall, focusing on every movement, every breath. The half-orc’s fury was palpable—it wasn’t just anger at what had happened; it was a promise of something far worse to come.

  “Come on,” Elliot said under his breath, urgency sharpening his voice.

  Without waiting for a reply, he moved, slipping away from their hiding spot. Serena followed close behind, her earlier nerves now replaced with something heavier—worry, laced with the cold edge of fear. She knew now, without doubt, that the danger circling them wasn’t just some petty tavern brawl. This was bigger. Bloodier. And they were in the heart of it.

  They kept to the edges of the main hall, avoiding open sightlines and ducking beneath arches and hanging tapestries. Elliot led them toward a narrow side corridor, its stone walls lined with rusted sconces and prayer scrolls yellowed by time. The air grew cooler, quieter.

  At the end of the hall, they came upon a spiral staircase carved into the stone, its steps narrow and slick with age. The staircase wound upward into shadow, its destination uncertain. There were no signs, no hints of what lay above—but compared to the mob of furious half-orcs flooding the ground floor, an unknown stairwell seemed the far safer choice.

  As they emerged from the winding stairwell into a vast, long-forgotten chamber, they found they were not alone. Dust clung to the air like fog, drifting through beams of dull, filtered light. Cobwebs draped from the vaulted arches above, and the air was thick with the scent of age and abandonment.

  Yet in the very center of the room, standing as still as a statue, was a figure—an old man, dressed in garments far too fine for such a desolate place. His deep burgundy coat bore the subtle embroidery of some long-faded noble lineage, and he leaned heavily upon an ornate walking stick crowned with a claw-shaped handle of tarnished silver. Despite his fragile appearance, his posture was tense, and his bony knuckles whitened around the cane's grip.

  “Well, well, well…” the man rasped, voice gravelly but sharp, like a blade dragged across stone. “Commoners… have no business on this floor.”

  Serena instinctively stepped forward. “I’m so sorry, sir, we didn’t mean to—”

  But Elliot was already moving. His arm shot out, gently but firmly pulling her back behind him. His gaze didn’t leave the old man for a second.

  “Don’t,” he muttered low, not loud enough to echo.

  A slight shake of his head followed—a silent warning to Serena. His posture shifted subtly, protective, tense. He could feel it in the air—like static before lightning, like the breath the forest holds before a predator strikes. There was danger here, coiled and ready, and it was coming from the man with the cane.

  Whatever this chamber once was, it had just become another trap.